Expansión de los Casos de Uso del Sistema

Missive to Bishop Villaro Cortiz:

The following is a complete copy of a scroll brought to my atten-tion by one of the acolytes here at the monastery. According to her report, she found it while cataloging the items of one of our recently deceased brethren. I leave it to you to evaluate its validity and determine any further course of action related to the matter. As for my part, my only comment of relevance is a quote made long ago by one far wiser than myself:

It seems that disaster arrives, much like success, when preparedness and opportunity meet.

— The Forgotten Minstrel Yours,

Deacon Thara Oolahet

I did not know Sidney Feldspreet very well when this whole affair began. I occasionally went over to the ramshackle tenement he called home, but admittedly, only when necessary. I feel, however, that I came to know him over the past year, and I must say that with his passing, I feel a certain sense of loss.

Although the opportunity never arose for me to ask him if he wished for me to commit his story to paper, I can only hope that he would look kindly upon me for doing so. As for why I have chosen to record for posterity such a strange and sad affair, I shall not deny that, at least in part, I do so to help me sort out a situation that is more than a little disconcerting. Furthermore, whether due to malady or age, it seems that the longer I tarry at the task, the less clearly I remember the details. Perhaps, if I place pen to paper, I can clarify the vague, trou-bling images that come to me now. Perhaps, once clear, they will tor-ment my sleep no longer.

As I begin, I must say that much of Sid’s story cannot be corrobo-rated, for reasons that will soon become apparent. In any case, I have no intentions of releasing this document until after I have gone to the bosom of the Pancreator. Neither Sid’s memory, nor my life, deserve the inquisitorial investigation such foolishness would bring.

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Here, as best as I remember it, is Sid’s story…

For nine years Sid worked for the Muster on the planet Malignatius.

“Thinkman” the illiterates called him. “Fool” was his usual retort. Yes Sid often said such things, but never until the “fool” had left the pre-mises. You see, Sidney Feldspreet was not known for his bravery or, for that matter, his looks. Perhaps he could best have been described as a twisted “tech geek” to whom no one in the Muster paid much atten-tion, except when they needed their precious think machines brought back to life. Things had not always been this way. Once, before the accident, Sidney Feldspreet had been more outgoing, more full of life and less full of poison. This is not to say that Sid was ever truly a good man, but now, he very likely could not even recognize one, much less imitate such qualities.

Sid had one driving, gnawing focus to his life — money. When Sid thought about all the firebirds that poured through the scum-coated fingers of his slave-trading employers it made him want to retch. Much of this money was made possible because of Sid’s talent with think machines. Because Sid was only an associate, a low-ranking guildsman, the Muster took a large portion of his earnings. This was a slight he never forgave.

In truth, Sid did enjoy tinkering with the arcane machines that came from who-knows-where. In the past, he was able to drown his greed in his work. But this grew more difficult with each passing day. If only the Muster oafs he sweated for would pay him decently, he would still be able to pretend to self worth. As it was, hours passed like weeks, as Sid hid away in his run-down tenement, working with wire and chip.

Like the constant droning of bees, his thoughts ate away all other con-cerns until all that was left for him was seething hatred. Some say there is a reason why boiling pots are never lidded tightly…

Long ago the Muster established itself (albeit quietly) on Malignatius.

The gulags here provided a bountiful harvest for slavers. Procuring cer-tain important political prisoners from these locations is difficult but pays handsomely. One of the primary tools used by the Muster for carrying out such tasks is an item known as Moranas Hands. Nitobi Corp designed these rare and valuable gloves during the Second Repub-lic for the express purpose of stealing of a person’s fingerprints. Through the years Sid had worked on think machines for the Muster, he had heard stories of these incredible gloves but had never come close to

seeing any. Now, he sat looking at a complete set of sourcerunes for making a pair of Moranas Hands gleaned from the storage of a Muster think machine belonging to Etelmar Droos, the “Bookman”. Sid had just finished repairing it and was running diagnostics when the plans appeared.

“What to do?” Sid could not just give back this treasure… at least not without first making a copy. Hours passed like minutes as he worked to make a duplicate without leaving electronic prints of his theft. Sid was not worried that he would be caught immediately — oh no, the dimwitted Etelmar who used this think machine for specs was of little concern. He was worried about some other tech redeemer finding his access point sometime in the future and turning him in for unlawful thought access. “It is always best to be twice cautious.” Sid muttered the phrase like a mantra as he worked.

The message on his wall squawker would not stop repeating itself in Sid’s exhausted brain. “Thinkman, I expect my think machine to be ready by lunchtime today as agreed.” For years, the well-heeled Etelmar had brought equipment in to be repaired. Never had he even so much as inquired as to Sid’s health. Everything about the Bookman seemed to have a way of annoying Sid. Two things, however, were at the top of the list. The Thinkman couldn’t decide which was worse: Etelmar’s deep rich voice or his good looks, undeserved in a man fifteen years Sid’s senior.

“There is no time for such distracting thoughts!” Sid angrily re-minded himself. “Etelmar, or one of his insipid lackeys, will be back for this think machine in less than three hours.”

Sweat poured off his scarred and broken nose and ran in trickles past his too-thin, surgically reassembled lips. Sid had to struggle to keep it from dripping into the works of the think machine. Between recon-nects he ran nervous fingers through the fringe of greasy yellow strands behind his splayed ears. He had successfully removed the storage from the think machine, placed it in his own box and duped-down the sourcerunes. Now all that remained was finishing the reconnect. The whole process was extremely complicated but necessary to cover his tracks. If done precisely, it would keep the braincore of Etelmar’s think machine from knowing that the sourcerunes had even been accessed, much less copied.

Unwashed and unrested for close to seventy hours, Sid worked

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tically to reconnect the think machine’s nervous system. Struggling to focus, he constantly checked his watch with watery blue eyes; eyes that barely held their color compared to the red web surrounding his pupils.

The door swung open and slammed into the rickety, paper-covered wall as Sid fastened the last outer lock.

“Well, Thinkman, is it ready?” Etelmar’s voice practically oozed superiority.

“Oh, quite,” was all that Sid could manage. How he despised the brainless buffoon.

“Good, then I’ll take it and be on my way.” Etelmar said as he strode up to Sid’s worktable. At this point Sid’s personal stench became more than noticeable. Etelmar shook his head in disbelief. “Good god man, must you insist on smelling worse than you look! Keep the change, I can’t bear to wait for you to sort it.”

As Etelmar slammed the door, Sid counted the firebirds and whis-pered, “Indeed, I shall have to do something about my condition, I think. And perhaps you dearest Etelmar can help.” With that he put his head down on the sweat-stained table and promptly went to sleep.

Sid stood in swirling, gray mists, feeling cool and comforted. Tiny ridges of fog raced across his palms and fingertips in currents and eddies. Etelmar lay in the dark pool of mist at his feet. Sid could not see them, but he knew that the Bookman’s dead hands still quivered — vacant, empty. Cool metal coins feathered across the hypersensitive prints still fresh on the Thinkman’s hands. Sid felt the power of his new wealth and turned to stride into the glow of well-deserved reward. He was greeted with smiling faces all around. But they quickly melted into confusion, twisting into horror and hatred until every countenance was smashed just as his was in the oft-remembered explosion, crackling in his own personal flames.

Holding his arms over his head, pressing his tormented visage into the grimy desktop, Sid woke up. Shuddering, soaked, stinking and bone-weary in the darkness, he knew sleep was not worth another attempt.

He began digging in the dusty bins in his back room, looking for various hoarded bits and parts. The tiny window high above sent a bright and lovely morning beam through the ever-growing cloud of dust motes Sid scattered in his efforts. By the time the beam had cov-ered half the room in its daily path, Sid had finished his task and was actually humming to himself in an off-key but obviously happy

fash-ion. In fact, he was actually pleased with himself.

“You know, old fellow, you are positively the best packrat in the business,” he said to himself with a smile. “Now that I’ve got all I need for the job here, I think I’ll take the afternoon and actually get a bath.

After that, a change of clothes and a bit of a walk; let work wait for the morning.” With that he was off to reacquaint himself with his tub.

After a long and definitely needed bath Sid dressed and went to get his razor. Standing in front of his steam-coated mirror, Sid raised his hand and wiped away a portion of the wetness, and stood looking at half of his broken visage. Sensing the darkness welling up inside him and trying desperately to avoid it, Sid dropped the razor back into the rust-stained sink, turned his back on the still half-shrouded mirror, and left the tenement to walk in the afternoon sun.

“There has to be a way to make this work,” Sid muttered to himself as he walked. “Plans like these can’t have landed in my hands for no reason.” He smiled as he caught the pun of his words. “How to use them given my… difficulties? That is the question.” Sid continued to walk and keep his own counsel, unmindful of the gathering clouds until the rains were full upon him.

A weathered overhang in front of a closed-down diner offered the best shelter in easy distance. Here Sid figured to just sit and wait out the storm. Half of the windows along the porch had been boarded up and, unconsciously, Sid positioned himself there. His curiosity about the store’s contents was not as strong as his desire to avoid reflection. Sid sat staring at the cracked pavement thinking of little and enjoying it.

Presently, Sid found himself looking into a puddle that had formed on the road just beyond his feet. He had not been conscious of it as it grew, but now that it was large enough to reflect his visage he could not stop staring into it. He could not leave it be until the puddle yielded up a clear view of his face. It was splattered with the ever-falling droplets, and he tormented himself with the attempt to bring the hated picture into focus. Finally, there was a brief pause in the deluge and the image crystallized. Shaking his lank hair in disgust, Sid shattered the image with his boot and stalked off into the lightning charged downpour.

“Why did I do that? Why did I make myself continue to look at it?

Was it that it seemed worse when it was not clear? I have borne these torments so long, why now are they becoming unbearable just as oppor-tunity is so close?” These questions occupied Sid on his way back home.

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The next morning, Sid started organizing all the pieces he had found. About an hour into his task, the squawkbox interrupted him.

“I thought I might mention that I will be moving north to Craggenheld in two weeks.” Etelmar’s voice held it’s usual lofty tones.

“Craggenheld is a particularly remote outpost, near a particularly re-mote gulag, mind you. It is unlikely that they have a tech redeemer there, and I will need one. You are the one I thought of first.”

Sid could not believe his ears. Somehow he managed to stammer out his acceptance. In a flash he realized that the opportunity he was waiting for had arrived.

Once he was sure Etelmar had turned off the squawkbox, Sid al-lowed the wicked plan in his heart to reach his lips. “Fingerprints will give me a new paper trail identity, but if I can find a way to use the tech to steal that great oaf’s face, I could be free.”

Knowing his proclivity for distraction, Sid constantly reminded himself of the goal and focused his attention on the task at hand.

During the next two weeks he would have to do without sleep, but once it was done, if he succeeded, a life of luxury would be his.

Hour after hour, time drained away the frantic energy of the Thinkman at his table. Eating and sleeping became afterthoughts that occurred only when unpreventable. Twenty-hour stints were regular, and forty-hour-long stretches without rest were reached more than once to-ward the end. Sid could not be sure if he was dreaming of work or actually working. Wires and circuits melded with scars and blood. Vi-sions of Etelmar’s face superimposed over his own melded into sche-matic plans of a wintry gift that would change everything.

Slowly the synth-parka with built-in gloves took shape. Sid would later be unsure how it had been done, but his present for Etelmar was ready in time. He would get the opportunity to show his undying ap-preciation for the Bookman’s “position.” Sid’s knew Etelmar would keep his perfect gift packed until the two of them were well away from these warmer climes.

The last night, even though he was exhausted, Sid slept fitfully. He would awaken, not knowing why, but feeling strangely unsure of his course of action. These rare twinges served only to aggravate him. By the time the sun was up, Sid had regained his composure. Etelmar came in the door of the tenement wearing the warmest smile Sid had ever seen on the man. It took Sid aback and several awkward minutes passed

before he managed to speak. “I have something for you. Call it a token for your kind consideration of me for this position.” The words felt strangely painful as they left his mouth. Why did Etelmar’s smile bother him so?

Etelmar reached out and took the package and proceeded to look even friendlier, if that was possible. “Thank you, Thinkman. Whatever could it be?” With an attitude that was almost childlike the Bookman tore into the brown paper.

Seeing the shiny, synthsilk layered parka in the hands of his victim sent a chill creeping down Sid’s back. It was not the sensation he had expected.

Then, to his horror, Sid watched as Etelmar started to put the parka on. Quickly he reached out to stop him. Almost too quickly.

Catching his breath, as Etelmar said, “Well I suppose that it can wait. It is a bit warm to try on such a thick parka just now. I hope you won’t mind me waiting to wear this until we are in a more appropriate climate. I would have never expected such a gift. Thank you.”

Why did he have to be so happy?

Sid numbly picked up his bag, not feeling the strap in his hand.

Like an automaton he closed the door behind him. Etelmar would make the trip on horseback. Sid, however, could not ride a horse, and was therefore relegated to the supply cart for the journey. As they trav-eled through the forest, Sid could not stop thinking, “What have I done?”

Each morning, as they traveled along the northbound trail, Sid dreaded looking at Etelmar. Dreaded gazing into his face which daily appeared less haughty and more kind. Though it was not yet cold enough to warrant it, Sid found that he shivered frequently, even in the sun. By the end of the first week on the road, Sid could not escape the fact that he was starting to like his quarry. No longer did he seem so stupid;

certainly Etelmar was slow in some ways, but far kinder than Sid had ever expected.

He finally reached a conclusion that had been coming for some time: “I must find a way to get that parka back,” Sid thought intently, chewing his lip as he sat across the campfire from Etelmar. He could tell that the weather was definitely growing cooler. The problem was how to regain the gift without raising suspicion? He would have to figure things out soon; time was running out.

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Sitting there by the fire, Sid found that he was on the verge of blurting out his dark plan when Etelmar suddenly arose and bid Sid a good night, striding off to his tent. Sid was left sitting by the fire with his mouth open to protest, but he never uttered a sound. Hours later, when Sid finally turned to his own smaller tent, he had made his deci-sion. In the morning, he would retrieve the coat while Etelmar took his morning constitutional. He would run off into the woods. Hopefully, Etelmar would think something had happened to him. At this point it

Sitting there by the fire, Sid found that he was on the verge of blurting out his dark plan when Etelmar suddenly arose and bid Sid a good night, striding off to his tent. Sid was left sitting by the fire with his mouth open to protest, but he never uttered a sound. Hours later, when Sid finally turned to his own smaller tent, he had made his deci-sion. In the morning, he would retrieve the coat while Etelmar took his morning constitutional. He would run off into the woods. Hopefully, Etelmar would think something had happened to him. At this point it